Chapter Thirty: There Is No Hatred Without Cause

After Knight Taylors and Commander Kramer had departed, Granny Nannick beckoned Victor forward to help her, saying, “Let’s go to the greenhouse!”

Stepping out of the side hall, the early summer garden was awash in blooming flowers. Along the path to the greenhouse, female students and priests occasionally inquired if assistance was needed, but Granny always responded kindly, waving them off to attend to their own affairs.

Victor knew well that she didn’t need anyone’s support; she was nimble enough while working. This display of intimacy was merely a gesture, meant for the temple’s other members and the petitioning common folk. Nevertheless, as they walked, Victor found himself with many questions about the drama that had just unfolded, hoping to seek his elder’s wisdom. Angoulême had provided him with a summary and conclusion, but it was the details that determined success or failure.

Victor kept a steady stride, matching the priestess’s pace. “Granny, you seem to have known Knight Taylors for a long time. Do you know why he despises Witcher hunters so much?”

Nannick replied evenly, “You already knew he was prejudiced. Why ask now?”

“Because the hatred he showed just now far exceeded what I’d expected. There must be a deeper reason.”

She paused in silence. With a sigh, Granny began, “That was over a decade ago. Taylors had just joined the Order of the White Rose, becoming one of old Siward’s favorites—”

“Uh, do you mean that kind of favorite?” Victor interrupted reflexively.

It was quite a shock; who would have thought that Taylors, with his thick brows and honest eyes, could possibly...!

“Who knows? That’s not my concern.” She continued, “Young men are impulsive and easily steered. At the time, the White Rose mentors had instilled in him a hatred for Witcher hunters and a desire to prove his own valor by defeating a renowned Witcher.”

And just then, Geralt happened to arrive here to recover from his wounds.

The youth burst out laughing, “Wow… the White Wolf, Geralt of Rivia, Butcher of Blaviken—a young knight wanting to beat him in a duel? That’s bold, truly wild imagination.”

“So they were very practical about it,” the priestess said disdainfully, shaking her head. “They demanded Geralt not lay a finger on him—just defend, never attack, and let Taylors pummel him. Otherwise, Geralt would be hanged.”

Victor raised an eyebrow, “And then?”

The priestess’s face showed amusement. “He stumbled over a stone, cut his own face with his sword, and wailed as if his hand had been severed. Geralt kept his promise, never touching him, so Kramer managed to quell Falwick’s fury and let Geralt go.”

Drawing on his own experience of being thoroughly defeated by Vesemir during sword training in Kaer Morhen, Victor could easily imagine how Geralt accomplished this. He could also picture how Knight Taylors, with his fragile ego, would feel utterly humiliated—even though it was all his own doing.

“Who’s Falwick?”

“Count Moen, Taylors’s mentor in the Order of the White Rose, and one of the witnesses to that ludicrous duel.”

After a while, they climbed the mountain path.

“Granny, you said you’d write to the Duchess. Are you familiar with her?”

“Emelia. My pharmacy has supplied her aphrodisiacs for years. But I fear she won’t be much help here. Siward may not resent Witchers, but he doesn’t care about them either.”

The youth wasn’t surprised by this answer. After all, Taylors had managed city security for years; it would be unrealistic for the Prince to know nothing of his methods. Not caring rather than actively resenting was already good news.

Talking as they walked, the two reached the greenhouse. Victor stepped forward to open the door, letting the High Priestess enter the cave.

She picked up scissors and a bone wand, moving nimbly toward the potted plants. “I must say, you were very composed earlier. For a moment, I thought anger had clouded your judgment and you’d declare your immediate departure. The deadline you set must have truly infuriated them.

But you must realize this really has offended them. If before it would have been merely a beating, now they’ll surely make it much harsher.”

Victor answered nonchalantly, “Well, they have to catch me first. If they can’t, it’s all just talk.”

Lady Nannick smiled. “I’ll prepare a good horse for you. Let them stew for a few weeks, then, once they grow lax, you leave a few days early and everything will be fine.”

Victor had other plans in mind, but replied, “Thank you, Granny.”

…

Time flowed like water, and in the blink of an eye, more than ten days passed…

The food sold by Lame Anton really was abysmal!

Angoulême couldn’t fathom it. Both dishes claimed to be fragrant roasted basil chicken, yet the difference was like heaven and earth. The leader’s was crisp-skinned and aromatic, the meat tender and juicy; the inn’s version looked similar at first glance, but one bite made clear they were worlds apart.

Letting herself go was fun, but she was starting to miss the leader. Despite the fact that every other day, Victor would send instructions through Catherine—reminders to buy supplies or admonitions to read—life seemed bland without his face-to-face sharp-tongued remarks.

With her reading and growth, she now understood that a direct assassination would have been unwise. The main problem was the opponent’s unknown strength. What if he was as formidable as Iofis? Or, even if he was merely as capable as Toruviel, able to fight back and forth for a while, she’d soon be surrounded by reinforcements.

Thus, her latest suggestion was to use traps—the bear traps that had shone during the jungle pursuit. Shiron had even privately asked her why her traps were so accurate. Sadly, she didn’t know either.

She did know that Victor hadn’t spent much time setting them up, and Taylors had obviously grown to hate the Witcher apprentice. Every few days, he personally went into the forest to check if the leader was still at the temple and whether the sentries were slacking off.

So, as long as a trap was arranged in the jungle for him, with a pincer attack from both sides, Taylors would surely be “jumping mad,” and then Angoulême could step out to finish the job—easy and fun!

The key was that only Angoulême Corleon would act. Everyone in the temple could vouch that Victor was uninvolved. The plan was simply perfect!

Her confidence lasted until she eagerly opened the letter delivered by Catherine, and her smug expression collapsed—

“This plan is decent, but it has a fatal flaw: the trap relies on scent as bait, which dissipates quickly in a natural environment. That means there’s a time limit; unlike last time, when you were being closely pursued, long-term setup is impossible.

And that’s the end of it. You no longer need to concern yourself with that person; he’ll soon cease to be a problem.

Have you finished the reading list I gave you last time? Make the most of your time—read more, learn more. I have high expectations for you. Don’t let me down.

Your leader, Victor Corleon.”